


Fool Around with Fire

by bsmog



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, backseat fooling around, clearly, first-date-not-first-date, it makes sense if you read it i swear, the author can't write anything not prompted by a song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 02:18:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4417259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bsmog/pseuds/bsmog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We all know Clint didn't have a normal adolescence. He missed out on a few things. Like dating. And parking. And Phil decides to remedy a little of that, because he's Phil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fool Around with Fire

**Author's Note:**

> There's this song I _love_ by The Griswolds called _Red Tuxedo_. This fic is inspired by (and might make a little more sense if you listen to) that song. In my head, the song is like the soundtrack to the scene in Footloose (the first one, don't talk to me about the remake) when Ren picks Arial up to go to the dance. Red tux and all. 
> 
> Anyway, Clint never had a first date, so Phil decides to give him one. And then some. 
> 
> Thank you all for the delightful welcome into this corner of the world. And a million an one thanks for the constant encouragement to sapphirescribe. She also cleaned up a lot of messes in this thing; anything that remains is on me. 
> 
> Marvel's sandbox, I'm just playing in it. With a sparkly shovel and pail that I use to dump sand on canon until I can't see it anymore.

**_Free tonight?_ **

Clint looks down at his phone and smiles, but only with his head ducked and only where no one can see him, because he’s not some lovesick teenage girl waiting for her boyfriend to text or whatever. Still, even after however many months he and Coulson have been doing... _this_ , texts that aren’t mission-related still make him smile. Grin.

Fine, he’s beaming or glowing or whatever the fuck it was that Stark said he does when Coulson walks into a room (or when Coulson walks out of _Clint’s_ room, because fuck if it isn’t great to be a grownass man and get to do _what_ he wants with _who_ he wants _whenever_ he wants). And for the record, Stark only didn’t get an arrow to a non-critical body part the first time he said that because he was wearing the suit at the time. Also, shooting your teammates is something Captain America frowns on, and no one likes to disappoint Cap. It’s like disappointing baseball or apple pie, only handsomer and with more muscles.

Clint considers playing coy for about half a second, but let’s be honest, he’s been missing Coulson— _Phil_ , which also still makes him grin—since they’d kissed goodbye three days ago. And three days feels like a long fucking time these days; he figures being possessed by a demi-god and watching the object of your longtime affection-turned-love get run through by a fucking scepter and then coming back to life is pretty much as good a reason as he can think of to spend as much time with Phil as possible.

**_Yep. Should be done here by 6. Miss me, sir?_ **

**_You’re not as charming as you think you are._ **

**_I’m gonna take that as a yes. If it helps, I missed you too._ **

His phone goes quiet for a few minutes, but Clint isn’t worried. He knows Phil’s still surprised at just how open Clint’s been about his feelings, but like he said. Demi-god. Scepter. Back to life. He’s not fucking around with all the shit he _could_ say now. 

**_Pick you up at 7. Sharp._**

Now Clint really grins. He knows where this is going. Or maybe where it came from, he just didn’t think Phil would take it so seriously. 

It was a quiet Sunday afternoon, maybe three or four weeks ago. No threats, no calls to assemble, no medical or PT or anything else. Just him and Phil and coffee and the newspaper and Phil’s iPod on shuffle and a speaker. When the song came on, Clint was barely paying attention, content to watch Phil puzzle over the crossword and sip his coffee and absently run his hand over Clint’s shin where it rested in his lap. 

_I’ll be comin’ round to pick you up_  
_Seven o’clock sharp_  
_Red tuxedo on…_

“Is that what it was like?” Clint asked. 

Phil looked up, face confused but warm, and Clint wanted to kiss him just because he could. So he did. See: scepter, resurrection, etc.

“Is that what what was like?” Phil asked a bit later, after Clint got done with the kissing, which always takes a little longer than Clint plans, and neither of them ever complain.

“Dating. Was it like the song, with the tux and the car and being nervous and curfew?”

Phil had looked at him for a long time, so long that Clint could see him processing the idea that Clint hadn’t exactly had a normal adolescence, that dating wasn’t something he ever did.

“Sometimes,” he finally said. “Sometimes it was easy, like friends. Sometimes it was like that, though. Wanting everything to be just right, spending a whole day waiting for seven to come around so you could knock on the door. Maybe your hands would brush, maybe you’d kiss hello. Maybe you’d spend the whole date wondering if you’d get to kiss goodbye.”

Clint hummed along with the song for a moment, letting his mind wander, thinking about it. 

“Sounds like it woulda been fun,” he said finally, but he wasn’t especially upset. 

Phil, though. Phil’s forehead was a little crinkled, worry lines etching above his eyes just a little—not like they do when the Avengers get a call, or like they do when he’s sitting next to Clint’s bed in medical, but still. 

“Hey, no, look, it’s not like I would have been much of a date back then anyway.” 

He’d smiled and nudged Phil with his foot, and Phil ran his hand up Clint’s shin again and smiled back, softly, and Clint relaxed a bit. The last thing Clint wanted, the last thing he wants even to this moment, is for Phil to be upset by anything that had happened before they’d ever met. Shit, not dating was probably a high point compared to most of it.

Phil went back to his crossword and Clint went back to watching and listening to the lyrics and thinking about what could have been, maybe, if he’d grown up in a different world. 

_I’ll walk you to my car, my hand’ll brush your arm_  
_I’ll crack a nervous smile_  
_I’ll take your hand in mine…_

**_You gonna have me home by one, sir?_ **

**_Wait and see, Barton. Wait and see._ **

And that’s how Clint finds himself fiddling with the buttons on his shirt at 6:57, tugging on the cuffs and smoothing the fabric, oddly nervous. Not because it’s Phil, but because they don’t do this. They don’t date. They get takeout and go to baseball games and hockey games and eat hot dogs and bring each other coffee with just the right amount (or lack of) cream and sugar. They wear t-shirts and scuffed sneakers and holey jeans—fine, that’s just Clint, but he’s still hoping—but not button downs outside of work, and they certainly don’t worry about whether that belt goes with these shoes (it does, but Clint’s fidgety, which they also don’t do, except today, apparently).

They’ve shared countless meals over the years before they started this _this_ , and a whole lot more since, including breakfast, lunch, dinner, and middle of the night snacks in bed, and Phil doesn’t even get upset when Clint gets crumbs in the sheets. They’ve had sex in every possible room in both their apartments in just about every possible position Clint knows—and some he didn’t, Phil has _moves_ —and they sleep better together than apart. But a date?

Clint’s idle question a few weeks before really was founded in curiosity, because Clint really hasn’t ever dated. Like...at all. 

Sure, he’s been on dates as part of his cover here and there, but mostly his love life—and calling it a _love_ life is being _really_ generous—has involved fighting, fucking (sometimes at the same time), and watching people leave. After the fighting or the fucking, mostly. Which is not to say he doesn’t hope for a little of that tonight. Fucking, not fighting, c’mon. He fights plenty at work, and besides, fighting with Phil isn’t any fun. He never wins. He doesn’t even _want_ to win, and yes, he knows what that means, and no, that’s the one thing he hasn’t told Phil yet, because he can talk about all this feelings shit, but _that_ feeling? 

Well. A date is scary enough, let’s just leave it at that.

True to character, Phil knocks on Clint’s door at exactly 7:00; sharp is sharp with Phil Coulson, that’s one thing that didn’t change with the whole alien-spear-to-the-chest thing. Phil is so punctual he makes the sun look late sometimes, but this is one time Clint doesn’t keep him waiting. He opens the door before the echo of the last knock fades, willing his face not to betray his eagerness, but he’s pretty sure he’ll fail. 

“Hey,” Phil says, voice quiet and calm, but Clint sees his fingers twitch at his side and wonders if maybe Phil is a little nervous, too. Frankly, it’d make him feel better, but he’s not going to say so.

Phil looks _good_. Okay, fine, Phil always looks good, but this is...yeah. Clint smirks at the jacket Phil’s wearing, a deep shade of maroon or burgundy or some kind of red, because any doubt he had about Phil taking his cues from that song are out the window, now. 

“No red tux?” he asks, because he can’t help himself, but his voice is a little gravelly and his mouth is a little dry, and he thinks Phil probably notices both of those things, because Phil notices everything about him.

“Thought it might be a little much,” Phil answers without missing a beat. “I do have one, though, for the record.”

Clint’s eyes go wide, and Phil shrugs.

“The ‘80s were an interesting time for fashion, what can I say? You ready?”

Clint snorts and nods, closing the door and following Phil out the door and into the early evening light. Their hands really do brush as they walk down the sidewalk, and he reaches out and links their fingers together, because why the fuck not, and because if they’re doing this whole “first date” thing, then he’s going to do all the cheesy things he assumes go along with that. He’s past forty years old; the time to wait for next time has long since passed.

He smiles appreciatively when he sees Lola parked out front, gleaming and immaculate. The smile turns to an all-out grin when Phil actually pulls open the passenger side door for him, face still a little nervous and fingers still a little unsteady as they squeeze Clint’s before letting go. 

The thing is, he knows Phil is making a point, is doing this for _him_ , is going through motions he probably hasn’t been through in thirty years, not really. Phil’s dated, he knows that. But he doubts that every first date has been so carefully orchestrated. Phil’s past dates would have had first dates of their own at some point or another in their lives. 

His chest aches a little and he knows his smile is about to split his face, which would normally be enough to tell Phil just how much he’s appreciating this whole gesture thing, but like he said, demi-god mind control, death by scepter, resurrection, etc., so he figures maybe he could take the appreciation up a notch. 

“Always the gentleman, sir,” he whispers as he steps into Phil’s space, putting his hand on Phil’s waist under his jacket. “But you know I’m a sure thing.”

He lets Phil’s mouth quirk up in the half-smile he knows is coming before kissing it away, pressing their lips together softly at first, then with more intent as Phil’s mouth opens and his tongue slides between Clint’s lips and his eyes flutter closed. Clint bunches his fist into Phil’s shirt and lets himself get lost in the soft tangle of tongues for a few moments before Phil pulls away, a little breathless.

“I know you’re new to this dating thing,” he says, voice pitched low and breathy and it goes straight to Clint’s gut and why the fuck are they bothering with a date again? “But usually this part comes after.”

“We’ve never been very good at _usually_ ,” Clint says as he leans in and kisses Phil again, just because he can and because Phil lets him, and doesn’t pull away for another long moment. 

“For tonight, we are. C’mon, get in the car.” 

Phil nudges Clint into the open door, and he sits, breathing in the smell of well-cared-for leather. Fuck, he loves this car. It’s everything surprising and unexpected about Phil in one beautiful, pretentious, shiny red package.

“Where’re we going, anyway?” he asks as they pull away from the curb.

Phil shrugs. “Surprise.”

“You know, just because this is a date doesn’t mean I’m going to magically know which fork to use at one of your fancy restaurants.”

“And just because this is a date doesn’t mean I’m dragging you to one. I want you to actually enjoy this. First dates are...well. I just want it to be…”

Phil trails off, face a little pink and Clint doesn’t think it’s from the wind. He bites his lip against the grin he figures is going to come back out again any time even if he’s trying very futilely to control it. He’s a fucking Avenger, damn it, and he should really get a handle on his damn emotions. He reaches across the stick shift and rests his hand on Phil’s thigh, squeezing a little and then leaving it there. 

“Special,” he says.

Phil nods and shrugs and looks at him out of the corner of his eye with this adorable _shut up, Barton, I know it’s corny_ look on his face that Clint wants very, very badly to kiss him for. But he loves this car and he doesn’t know a lot about dating, but he knows enough to know that a car wreck would really fuck things up for the night, so he settles for picking his hand up and sliding it across the back of Phil’s neck, playing with the hair at his collar and sliding his thumb over the warm skin there. And grinning like a loon, of course, because he’s got fuck-all control over his emotions and it’ll make Phil happy, so there it is. 

They drive for a while, the wind and something from Phil’s iPod setting the soundtrack. Clint imagines that most first dates are more awkward than this, but this is him and Phil, and this part is easy, and he’s grateful for it. 

When The Song comes on, Clint turns his head and grins at Phil, who just shrugs and says, “Shuffle,” and grins back. He listens again, letting the lyrics flicker through his mind. 

“You know,” he says, eyeing Phil as they stop at a light, “the backseat part is going to be harder in a convertible.”

He means it as a joke, because they’re grownass men and they both have more-than-serviceable bedrooms—Clint knows this because they’ve spent a lot of time in recent months judging just how serviceable they are—and Lola’s backseat isn’t all that big. 

So he can be excused for choking on his own spit when Phil says, as he turns off the highway and onto a side road and Clint realizes how far outside the city they are and just how quiet the road is all of a sudden, “Cloaking capabilities are a thing of beauty, babe.”

Because holy shit, Phil is taking this whole thing _entirely_ seriously, and all of a sudden Clint has visions of all the things they _could_ do in this car, because Phil is right, no one would see them even with the top down and _wow_ , that’s fucking hot.

“If we’re going to dinner-” Clint is fishing now, but he’s really trying to hang on to the last of his dignity here, and Phil isn’t helping.

“There are half a dozen restaurants on my block that are better than you can get in most mid-sized towns in this country,” Phil says, tone mild but eyes sparkling. “I didn’t bring you out here for dinner, I brought you out here because you missed out on the experience of the quintessential first date. We’re just going to have one with some...enhancements.”

Clint groans. He can’t help himself and he doesn’t think Phil wants him to, at least not if that half-smile on Phil’s face is any indication. 

“I told you I was a sure thing,” he says, but his heart isn’t in it, because holy hell, Phil basically picked him up and drove him out to the middle of nowhere so they can fool around in Lola’s backseat— _Lola_ , fuck—because Clint didn’t go to high school or college or whatever would have meant that backseat makeouts were normal things. 

That _feeling_ he was tamping down earlier makes a repeat appearance, but he figures that can be dealt with later, because he’s a goddamned adult (like he said before) and he knows when to wallow around in feelings and when to just let lust win out. He’s pretty sure this is one of those times where lust should take a front seat. Or a back seat, as the case may be, and thank fuck he didn’t say that out loud.

“First time for both of us, then,” Phil says as he maneuvers Lola off the beaten path and down a pair of barely-visible tracks towards a copse of trees. 

“Something like-wait, what?”

Phil rolls his eyes, never taking them away from the tracks and keeping Lola out of the larger of the holes in the not-quite road. He sighs.

“There’s something to be said for avoiding the dating experience when you’re young,” he says. Clint lifts an eyebrow. “It’s all very romantic and nostalgic to think about at our age, but at the time, it’s awkward and full of miscues and misunderstandings. More than half the time, I hated it.”

Clint knows he could ask more, could tease about Phil not having moves when he was younger, could push until Phil tells him the whole story. But what he hears and what he knows is that Phil is trying to take something that he hated and turn it into something they’ll both look back on with fondness. He’s letting Clint have an experience without any of the crap that came along with it when Phil was younger. 

He’s doing what he always does—having Clint’s back and making everything as good for him as it can possibly be. 

Fuck it. Lust can wait a hot second, he’s got feelings to deal with.

“They call this parking, right?” he asks as Phil kills Lola’s engine and they gaze out over the treetops before them. 

He has no idea where they are, and he doesn’t give a shit. It’s pretty, though. Phil would be the guy who’d find an aesthetically pleasing place to fool around in a back seat. Meanwhile Clint’s pretty sure he’d have spent most of his time in industrial parking lots breathing toxic fumes or some shit. All the more reason it was for the best that he didn’t get into this whole dating thing.

Phil nods and grins. “They did when I was younger, anyway.”

Clint nods and swallows and keeps looking out through the windshield. This is harder than he thought, but he owes this to Phil. Fuck that, he owes it to himself, to _them_ , because there _is_ a them, in spite of everything.

“Fine, we’re old, whatever, I’m not going back to twenty, fuck that.”

“Amen,” Phil says absently, and Clint has a vision of a much-younger Phil, a little nerdy and a little unsure, the complete opposite of the cool, confident, competent, sexy-to-a-fault man sitting next to him. 

He imagines sweaty palms and unsure looks, and he hates anyone who made Phil doubt that he ever was anything less than amazing, because _duh_. This is Agent/Director Phil Coulson of S.H.I.E.L.D. Any argument to the contrary of any of those statements is completely fucking invalid. Clint’s an Avenger; he knows these things and besides, he’ll shoot anyone who says differently. Fine, he’ll just threaten them a lot, but his bow is scary, okay? 

He takes a deep breath. 

“You ever go parking with anyone who was in love with you before?”

He wants to close his eyes, but he can’t, because he’s _Hawkeye_ , and if he isn’t looking, he’s at a disadvantage. So he flicks his eyes to the left, watches Phil’s sharp intake of breath, watches the color spring up in his cheeks instantly, watches his eyes go wide and his head whip around to look at Clint.

But he’s still Phil fucking Coulson, professional badass, so his voice is calm when he says, “No, I’m pretty sure I haven’t.” Clint sees him lick his lips before he goes on. “But just so we’re clear-”

“Yes.” 

“Yes?” Phil’s voice cracks and Clint sees the smile inch over the corners of his mouth, and that’s enough to make him turn his head even though _oh god he said it, he really said it_.

“Yes, I’m saying you’ve been parking with someone who’s in love with you now. Or you’re going to, if we ever stop talking and start, y’know...doing whatever you do when you go parking.”

Phil’s sort-of smile transforms into a full-on grin, and Clint feels all the tension run out of his shoulders and jaw and he wonders why he doubted this for even a second, because it’s Phil. 

And to his credit, Phil doesn’t say any of the things Clint figures are expected when someone makes that kind of confession. There’s no _really?_ or _seriously?_ or _are you sure?_ There’s just a 1000-watt smile, and then Phil pushes a button and the smile turns a little devious and Clint knows the cloaking mechanism’s been activated, which is a little hotter since he also noticed they’re not the only car out here, but they are the only ones who just became invisible (but not soundproofed, and that’s a whole other level of hot that makes Clint squirm in his seat).

“How do you want to do this?” Phil asks, sliding his hand up over Clint’s cheek to cradle his jaw, and when the fuck did that become the thing that made him turn to a puddle of mush?

“Oh, _now_ you want to plan?” Clint teases as he leans into Phil, letting their mouths rest a hairsbreadth apart and breathing Phil’s air. 

Phil shrugs and lets his fingers fall down to Clint’s neck holding their heads together. 

“You said you were a sure thing, I figured the least I could do was make you comfortable.”

They start to laugh then, because this is absurd—between them they’re two of the most dangerous men on the planet (S.H.I.E.L.D. says so, there’s a matrix)—and they’re planning how to get off in a convertible together, and they’re so very _them_ that the only way to make this make sense is to make it a little irreverent. 

Clint pulls away and opens his door, sliding out and then pushing the seat forward so he can settle himself into the back seat. He looks at Phil expectantly, grinning and kicking his feet out so he’s sprawled across the seats, looking intentionally sloppy and like he’s waiting, because when does he ever get to look like a sure thing except when he’s announced it flat out?

Shut up, he knows he’s always a sure thing for Phil. It’s fine. He’s not sorry or ashamed, he just likes playing it up a little. 

Phil shakes his head and follows suit, and Clint snorts as he watches how Phil shimmers a little as he steps out of and then back into the cover of the cloaking device on the car. He hopes the occupants of the other cars nearby are already distracted enough, otherwise they’re going to be very confused. 

Luckily Phil’s spent most of his career explaining shit to very confused civilians. Surely he can manage this. Or else they just run away, and that’s fine too.

As Phil slides into the back seat and leans across Clint’s lap and chest and stops just inches from his face, he grins again and says, “Where I normally expect you to pick up on things because you’re Hawkeye, and you’re paid to be the most observant person on earth, give or take, I owe it to you to make sure you know you’re not the only person in this car who’s in love. In case you weren’t sure.”

It’s delivered in classic Phil style, calm and confident and sexy, and Clint can’t even find the slightest hesitation in his eyes or his mouth, which probably is helped by the fact that Clint said it first. But what the fuck does he care who said what when, the fact is Phil loves him and he loves Phil, and now they both know it, and there’s nothing left to say that hasn’t been said in the long road since the Battle of New York. There’s just here and now and an invisible car and perfect night air and Phil all but laying across Clint’s lap, and it’s all enough to make Clint wonder just why they’re still talking and wearing so many clothes, because surely admissions like that are worthy of some kind of celebratory sex, right?

“Guess it’s good we’ve had some history with new territory then, isn’t it?” Clint murmurs, sliding his hand under Phil’s jacket.

Phil tilts Clint’s chin down and kisses him soundly—there’s no hesitation, no waiting before he slides his tongue against Clint’s. It’s sure and hot and wet and a little filthy, which seems to be Phil’s intent, and it’s distracting enough that Clint doesn’t notice Phil’s fingers working the buttons on his shirt until the cool night air creeps across his skin in stark contrast to Phil’s warm palm, and he shivers. 

“This is pretty comfortable territory, actually,” Phil whispers into his mouth at the same time he slides his hand down to Clint’s belt. 

Clint laughs against Phil’s lips, because Phil’s right, just like always. Since this whole thing started, everything with Phil has been as easy as breathing. This part...yeah. This part he can do. Hell, the love part he can do, too, apparently, and he’ll congratulate himself for that later (and don’t think he won’t, he’s never said those words to anyone in his whole life and meant them like he did just now). 

Just now, though, god does he want Phil. His body tingles with it, aches with it, itches with how badly he wants more skin, more contact, more of Phil on him and in him or around him or however this shakes out. Doesn’t matter, really, so long as it does shake out, here in the back of Phil’s convertible in a park in the semi-darkness outside Manhattan.

“Didn’t know you were such an exhibitionist, sir,” Clint teases as his own hands finally get with the program, slipping Phil’s jacket off his shoulders and making short work of pulling Phil’s sweater over his head.

They suck in a breath almost as one as their bare skin touches. Clint pulls Phil down for a heated kiss, letting his hips hitch up where they cradle Phil’s, feeling Phil’s hardness slide against his own and groaning. 

“Not an-” Phil hisses as Clint gently rakes a thumbnail over Phil’s nipple. “Not an exhibitionist; no one can see us.” Phil slides his hands under Clint’s waistband at his back, letting his fingers run over Clint’s ass before grabbing and holding on. “But they can hear you if you keep that up.”

Clint moans again, partly to in spite of Phil’s words, but mostly because he can’t help it. 

“You gonna fuck me in the backseat of your car?” he asks. “Because you know I’m no good at-- _oh_ \--at being quiet.”

He tries to sound flip or nonchalant or cool or whatever the fuck all those words are that he’s never given a fuck about, probably precisely _because_ he never had to do any of this play-along shit when he was the age that people actually _did_ that, but Phil’s got this look on his face and oh, this is gonna be good, and he’s not even ashamed about the moan that escapes from his throat.

“Let them hear,” Phil whispers into Clint’s ear, and oh _fuck_ , this is gonna be better than good.

Phil lets go of Clint’s ass and yanks at his waistband, and Clint doesn’t have to be told twice. Fuck it, he doesn’t even have to be told once; he lifts his hips and tangles his hands with Phil’s, pushing and tugging until his pants and his underwear are around his ankles—aw, _shoes_ —and then Phil’s pushing him back against the seat and his tongue in Clint’s mouth and running his hands fucking _everywhere_. Clint abstractly thinks it’s probably a little unfair that he’s naked and Phil’s basically just shirtless with his jeans unbuttoned, but when Phil starts to suck on his neck, he can’t quite figure out who it’s unfair to and he really doesn’t care.

“Gonna--oh god that’s good--gonna leave a mark,” he mutters at the same time he puts his hand on the back of Phil’s head and holds him right where he is, reveling in the feeling of blood rising under his skin between Phil’s lips. 

“Mmmhmm,” is all Phil says into Clint’s neck, and then he slides a hand down Clint’s body and palms his cock, and you know what, hickeys are a great fucking idea, this is a great fucking idea and why didn’t they do this a long time ago?

Clint thrusts up into Phil’s palm, desperate for anything and everything, as long as it’s more, and he’s starting to get the attraction of this backseat thing. 

“Ah ah ah,” Phil says, moving his hand to hold Clint’s hips down and grinning. 

“What-?”

“The first time I did this,” Phil says, then pauses to kiss Clint again, soft and sweet and completely at odds with the fact that Clint is naked and hard and about three seconds from begging, and that’s saying something considering the number of times he’s been tortured (a lot) and the number of times he’s begged for anything (never). “I was in your spot. Gonna do to you what he did to me, so you see the appeal. Though,” he considers, going all _I’m Phil Coulson, master fucking strategist_ , and fuck if that isn’t hot too, “age and experience has its benefits.”

The next thing Clint knows, Phil’s fit himself in the corner of the opposite side of the seat, half hanging onto the floor and half sprawled between Clint’s legs—Phil Coulson, master strategist and fucking _ninja_ , apparently—and he positively grins up at Clint before sucking Clint’s cock into his mouth in one deep, fast swallow.

“Holy _fuck_!”

Phil doesn’t shush him. He doesn’t even look at him funny. He half chuckles and half moans, which makes _Clint moan_ , because the head of his cock is in Phil’s throat like it’s no big deal, and then Clint moans _again_ when he lifts his head just enough to see that Phil’s got his hand in his own pants, and they’re so having a talk about this not-exhibitionist thing later. Also about whoever sucked Phil off in the backseat of a car, because Clint can’t decide if he should punch the fucker in the face (yeah, fine, he’s the jealous type a little) or send him a goddamn fruit basket.

Not now, though, because right now all Clint can think about is hot and wet and the filthy slurping sounds Phil’s making and the faint, slick slide he can hear coming from where Phil’s jerking himself off, and fuck if he isn’t going to come like a teenager, which is probably the point, but still. He lets his head fall back and his eyes close and just _feels_ , panting and moaning Phil’s name and every colorful word he’s ever known, running his hand through Phil’s hair and over his jaw and tracing his lips as they slide over his cock, knowing they’re red and shiny and sinful, and that if he looks at them right now he really will come, and he’s just not ready for this to end yet. 

Phil runs his other hand up Clint’s belly from where it was resting at the base of his cock to cup Clint’s cheek for just a second. And then, as he slides his mouth down and lets Clint’s cock hit the back of his throat as he moans again, sending vibrations through Clint’s body that make his toes curl, he pushes his first two fingers against Clint’s lips, and _oh, fuck yes_.

Clint brings his own hand up to wrap around Phil’s wrist, pulling it closer as he opens his mouth and sucks, slurping and bobbing his head to the same rhythm Phil’s using on his cock. He nips at the pads of Phil’s fingers before taking them all the way into his mouth and tonguing between them. It’s nearly too much when he opens his eyes and looks down at Phil looking up at him, mouth wrapped around his cock and other arm moving slowly but purposefully, and god, Clint wants to see, but he doesn’t want to stop, so he slides his hand up and down Phil’s wrist, mimicking what he imagines Phil is doing to himself.

Phil’s eyes crinkle a little, part gentle and part evil, and he pulls his fingers free from Clint’s mouth and slides them over Clint’s balls and down, and oh, that’s going to do it, that right there, just the slow, soft, wet circle of Phil’s fingertips over his hole. He slides himself down the seat a little, panting and shameless and _oh, god, please_ , and Phil presses one finger inside—gently, so gently—and slides his mouth up and down again and again and they’re both moaning now, and it’s vibrating through Clint’s body, and he feels Phil’s sharp intake of breath, feels the quick huffs around his cock that mean he’s coming even with Clint’s cock in his mouth and with his finger in Clint’s ass and that’s it for Clint.

His back arches and his vision tunnels down to nothing except for Phil’s eyes looking up at him as he swallows around Clint’s cock as he comes. He wants to close his eyes, wants to ride this forever, but he can’t look away from Phil and Phil doesn’t look away from him, he just keeps licking and sucking and staring into Clint’s eyes until Clint gasps and his head finally falls back against the seat. 

Phil pulls away then, mouth and finger sliding away softly, slowly, and he rests his head on the inside of Clint’s thigh, smiling.

“Fuck,” Clint says, because never let it be said he’s not eloquent. 

Phil huffs a laugh, then turns his head to kiss the crease where Clint’s hip and groin meet. 

“Shoulda been doing this for years,” Clint mumbles, cracking one eye and looking down at Phil. 

Christ, he’s gorgeous, and suddenly he’s so far away Clint can hardly stand it. He reaches out weakly—it was a good fucking orgasm, okay?—making grabby hands at Phil in the hopes that’ll convey his message. 

Phil’s perceptive, luckily. One doesn’t become Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. if he has his head up his ass, and Phil is better than most. All, if you ask Clint, and if you don’t, fuck you anyway. 

“C’mere,” Clint says anyway, because feelings and shit. 

Phil produces something that looks suspiciously like a wetnap from his pocket and cleans himself up, all the while smiling at Clint, who is still making grabby hands like a child, now more because it’s making Phil smile, which _always_ makes Clint smile. He crawls back up so he’s braced above Clint, only wincing a little as he untangles himself from the seat and the floor and Clint’s legs. 

“So,” Phil says. 

“I like dating,” Clint says, before he reaches up to pull Phil down into a kiss. 

He can taste himself in Phil’s mouth, and if he wasn’t...well, not a teenager, he thinks it could be enough to get him going again. As it is, he kisses Phil until he can’t breathe anymore, until he can’t think anymore, because it’s the only way he knows to say thank you for doing something so silly just because it’s an experience Clint’s never had. When they finally break apart, eyes a little glazed again, even if that’s all the closer to aroused either of them will get for a little while, Phil smiles. 

“You like _parking_ ,” he says, voice fond and amused. 

“I like parking with _you_. And dating with you, even if this isn’t how it _usually_ goes.”

Phil laughs, low and soft and the accompanying smile is unguarded and makes his eyes crinkle up and shine.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, and Clint’s about to protest (half-heartedly, because yeah, he is), until, “and I love you.”

And just like that Clint’s mouth snaps shut and no, his eyes aren’t blurring at all, and he stares up into Phil’s face for a minute and an eternity all at once while his smile threatens to actually split his face. 

“Yeah?” he rasps when he can finally trust his voice not to completely crack, and never mind that Phil sounds smoother after what he’s just done than Clint does. 

“Yeah,” Phil whispers and kisses him again. “But can we go home and do this in bed? This seat is hell on my knees.”

Clint laughs and leans up to kiss Phil, because the joke was for his benefit and he knows it, so he could find solid ground in this new world where Phil loves him and he-- _oh hell_. 

“I love you, too, y'know.” He sort of blurts it out, which is stupid since he’s already said it, but not _those_ words, not exactly _that way_. 

They taste good in his mouth, though, now that he’s said them. 

“I know,” Phil says. “And I’m glad.”

It’s such a Phil thing to say, and they both grin then, because now it’s _really_ all out there. 

“So you really will have me home by one,” Clint says as he does up the last button on his shirt and hands Phil his jacket which is somehow, miraculously, unwrinkled and how the fuck does Phil do that?

Phil shrugs and crawls out of the back seat, shimmering as he leaves the cloaking shield and then again as he slides back into the front seat looking supremely unruffled and not at all like he just blew his boyfriend in the backseat of a convertible. Clint fucking loves it. He looks at Clint as he takes his own seat on the passenger side and hits the button to make Lola visible again. They smile again as they both look around at the half dozen other cars nearby, because what must _that_ have looked like?

“I’ll have us both home by one,” Phil says as he puts Lola in gear and starts back down the road. “I may not be a teenager, but I’m not too old for round two, Barton. Besides, parking’s just a way to make sure you don’t get caught by authority figures. And last I checked, I’m pretty much the authority figure around here, and I’m old enough to appreciate a bed.”

Clint closes his eyes and grins at the promise in Phil’s voice and the wind in his hair and the music on the breeze.

_I’ll be comin’ round to pick you up_  
_Seven o’clock sharp_  
_With a dab of dad’s cologne_  
_I own a modest car_  
_I’ll have you home by one..._

He puts his hand on Phil’s knee and sighs happily.

Best. Date. Ever.


End file.
